Double Cross

Detective Stone from the MPD.”
    To my surprise, the door flew open, and he ushered us inside. “Get in, get in.”
    Bree scratched her ear and gave me a look.
    “Do you have some particular concern about the police being seen at your door?” she asked.
    “You mean because that always works out so well?” he said. “Last I checked, cops at the front door is not good news.”
    We walked into a narrow hallway with two closed rooms along the left side and a row of framed headshots—maybe Cooley’s actor friends—hanging on the other chipped and peeling wall. I wondered if one of them was the dead girl-friend.
    “Could we sit down?” Bree asked.
    He didn’t move. “Not really. What do you want? Like I said, I’m busy.”
    Cooley was already one strike away from finding out what it’s like when I lose my patience. “We have questions about two Saturdays ago. Just for starters, can you tell us where you were?”
    “Okay.” He started toward the back room. “Let’s sit down. I was right here that Saturday. Never left the apartment.”
    Once we were in the living room, Bree stayed on her feet. I sat down across from Cooley on a tall, wobbly stool. He had one very old easy chair, a coffee table, a half-decent home-theater setup, and another stool as the balance of his furniture.
    “How long have you lived here?” I asked.
    “Ever since I won the lottery,” he deadpanned. His manner was cocky and full of hard eye contact.
    Bree stepped in. “Mr. Cooley, can anyone verify that you were here that night?”
    He sat back in his chair. “Yeah. The good ladies at 1–900–FUCKYOU can do that.”
    With two quick steps, she was on him. She jerked the handle on the side of his La-Z-Boy and laid him out flat. Then she leaned in close. “This isn’t funny, asshole.
You
aren’t funny. Now talk to us, and keep it straight. I don’t have much of a sense of humor lately.”
    She’d gone further than I would have, but it worked out.
    The actor put his hands up in mock surrender. “I was just kidding around. Damn. Chill, girl.”
    Bree stood up but stayed close. “Talk. I don’t feel like chilling, dude.”
    “I rented a movie, ordered Chinese from Hunan Palace. Somebody delivered the food. You can talk to them.”
    “What time did they deliver?” I asked.
    He shrugged. “Seven? Eight? Somewhere in there. Hell, I don’t know.” Bree barely moved toward him, and he flinched before recovering again. “I’m serious. I don’t know what time it was. But it doesn’t matter. I was here the whole night.”
    I didn’t say so out loud, but I felt inclined to believe him. Despite his show of testosterone, everything about him was
weak
—the way he moved, the way he talked, the way he had folded so fast when Bree got a little aggressive.
    We were looking for someone much more in control than this guy, someone who was stronger in every way.
    And probably a better actor too.
    Bree must have felt it. “Let’s go, Alex,” she said. She turned back to the actor, smiled. “Sorry, you’re not right for the part. Bet you hear that a lot, smart-mouth.”

Chapter 42

    AT NINE THIRTY on Sunday morning,
church day
, a mild-mannered type named David Hayneswiggle, an accountant, and not a very good one, gazed down and saw that the George Washington Memorial Parkway was filling up with traffic. Both northbound and southbound lanes were crowded—though not enough to keep anyone from doing at least sixty and often eighty or more.
    Once in a while, a northbound car would honk loudly as it approached the usually deserted pedestrian bridge that ran across the highway. Made sense to Hayneswiggle.
    The people riding along below him had to be wondering what some guy in a droopy Richard Nixon mask was doing up there all by himself. And if they did wonder, they were only half right.
    It
was
a Nixon mask, but he
wasn’t
alone. David Haynes-wiggle had plenty of company.
    The
third
story had begun, and it was a doozy—very imaginative, high profile, dramatic as hell.
    Another terrific role to play too. The accountant with nothing to live for, nothing to lose. Huge chip on his shoulder. Payback time long overdue for this guy.
    An eighteen-year-old high-school boy lay motionless on the cement at his feet. The poor lad was dead, his throat slit and already bled out. The boy just couldn’t get it in his head to cooperate and do as he was told. Next to him, a teenage girl sat with her back against a wall that also hid her from